Dr. Otowa looked at him dully.

Then he said, “I have no son.”

“Then he is your brother’s son or your sister’s son.”

“I have no brother or sister.”

He met Swagger’s gaze steadily.

“It is said of the new Kondo,” Swagger said, “that some people he meets normally, that he goes clubbing, that he has a regular life. But sometimes he retreats into some kind of artifice. If he has to meet certain people he wears a mask. Or he designs some theatrical lighting setup so his face can’t be seen. What’s behind that? When I saw him, I knew. He can’t meet people who know you. He met me because he doesn’t know I’ve been in contact with you. But anyone who’s seen him and you would see in a second the extreme facial similarity. It’s all there: the eyes, the shape of the nose, the shape of the mouth, the texture and color of the skin, the width of the face, the hairline. It’s a face I had seen before, sir. I saw it in a photo at Doshu’s dojo in Kyoto. You, Doshu, and the boy, then possibly fourteen, and some big trophy.”

“My son died,” said Otowa.

Bob saw no point in adding a thing. In any case, he had nothing to add.

Finally, Dr. Otowa spoke.

“I suppose I always feared such a thing. No one can hurt a father like a son, and no revenge is sweeter than the son’s upon the father.”

“You should not blame yourself.”

“There is no one else to blame. That picture was taken in nineteen seventy-seven when the boy was sixteen. He had just won the eighteen-under all-Japan kendo championship open division, under Doshu’s coaching. His life was set. He would win it at seventeen, and at eighteen; then he would enter the men’s division and win that for five years running. Then he would be a national hero, a celebrity. He could go anywhere and do anything. Japan would be before him. He could be a politician, a CEO, an admiral.”

“What happened?”

“An appointment came up. It was an extraordinary opportunity. I supposed it would turn me into a national hero, a celebrity. I chose myself over him. I took him to America with me for three years. He had two years of American education at Scarsdale High and a year at Columbia. I don’t think he ever really forgave me for taking him out of his competitive kendo for the three most important years of his life. But to this day I don’t know how I could have turned it down. In any event, America changed him in some basic ways. It confused him.”

“It’ll do that.”

“He came back in ’eighty at nineteen and we knew he was too far behind to score well in the eighteen-overs, that is, the national championship. But he competed valiantly. It was astonishing. He made it to the finals. He was so heroic. But he lost, a close match. So it goes. But then in a split second, he threw it all away. Samurai pride, samurai rage. The helmets were off, the two opponents bowed, and my son went berserk for one second. He struck the man in the neck with his shinai, hurt him quite badly. Broke his collarbone. I had not been father enough to save him from his greediest hungers. The scandal was shattering. There was no hope. His gi and slippers were found on the beach at Enoshima. He had walked into the sea. No body was ever found.”

“I’m very sorry,” Bob said.

“You have no need to apologize. The shame is mine to bear, and mine alone. I love what my son was, I hate myself for my agency in his corruption, and I loathe what he has become. I can see the psychology, though. He did become the best swordsman in Japan, though not in a surrogate format with bamboo weapons. As a calculated affront to me and to the elders of the kendo world, he became a champion in the real world of the gutter, where the blades are sharp and the blood is real.”

Bob said nothing.

“Come with me,” said the old man.

He led Bob to the blank dark wall of the vault, cranked the handle, and slid the massive door open. He ducked in, gesturing Bob to follow, and Bob found himself amid yet more swords, even more beautiful, more valuable.

“There are many great collections,” Otowa said, “but none so great as this.”

“I am privileged,” said Bob.

The doctor leaned and plucked one off the wall.

“Here,” he said, handing it to Bob.

Bob felt the electricity of the thing, the perfection of its balance, the hunger of its blade, the stunning artistry of its fabrication.

“May I?”

“Of course.”

Bob turned the blade upward and cleanly drew it from the saya. The koshirae-blood red sago of black sharkskin, a gold-tinted tsuba-were magnificent, but even that magnificence was diminished by the blade.

“That may be the most perfect blade in all Japan. It is certainly the sharpest, the strongest, the most deadly.”

“Sir, it’s priceless.”

“Take it. Use it. Fight with it. Possibly it gives you a slight edge. My son will recognize it. He will know its power. It is one thing that may give him pause. It is your only chance. He had a superb natural skill set, and if he’s worked hard for the past twenty years, he is indeed transcendent.”

“I couldn’t risk losing it.”

“Swagger-san, it was built for this purpose and no other. It is fulfilling its destiny. Were it sentient, it would petition for permission to defend you. Think nothing of its value. Think nothing of its rarity. Think only of it as your weapon.”

“Yes, sir. A Muramasa, I take it?”

“It is indeed. The ‘evil’ swordsmith. His was the blade-maybe even that one-in the stream in the famous story about Masamune. The leaves and twigs avoided the great Masamune’s. Muramasa’s attracted them, and it cut them flawlessly. Muramasa took pride in this when he should have felt shame. Thus his blades had a reputation for blood. They yearned to cut. They also had a penchant for seeking out members of the shogun’s family, and killing or maiming them. They were banned, rounded up, and destroyed by the shogunate, which is why they are so rare today, and that is one of the survivors. My son will know this, and know that he works for a kind of shogun. That will cloud his mind. Again, a small thing, but victory is won on small things.”

“I thank you. I will return-”

“No. If you kill him, then the sword will have served its purpose. Maybe that is why it came to me so many years ago. Destroy it, that’s all. Get it off the earth. Send it to hell. It came from hell, it represents hell. Use it and destroy it without a second thought.”

“I will, Dr. Otowa.”

“That sword is my blessing. Now please go. I wish to be alone.”

40

“You’re sure,” said the Shogun.

“As sure as I can be. I told you, Lord, this is a determined and creative adversary. But now we have him.”

“I worry that at the park, it will be difficult to control. It will spill into a mess, and the news stations and the-”

“I will have ten men concealed. They are experts at camouflage. Ninja, almost. Not really, but close. I myself will be there. It’s early, we control access to the park. No one will interfere. Certain suggestions have been made to the police to stay away. It’s very, very early, barely dawn. We control the terrain. He has no choice but to come, if he loves the child, and he loves the child. I saw it in his eyes. At a signal I can get forty more men in the park almost instantly. He has some skill, I admit. But not enough to overcome me and certainly not enough to overcome fifty men. That only happens in movies.”

“Suppose he brings-”

“He can’t. He won’t have time. He cannot locate us until we call him. He will have to travel at extreme speed across Tokyo. We will be watching all the roads as he approaches and will know if he has allies. But he can’t get allies close enough in time. It’s a very solid plan.”

“The child-”

“The child must die. She’s seen too much. It is a small matter. It means nothing.”